A Collection of Color
by divergentfan4life
Summary: In this series of one-shots, characters from different series are described in-depth. Review/PM with requests! It says that this is an Infernal Devices fic, but I will do any characters from other series if I've read it! :)
1. Shards of My Heart

**Hi guys! So I know I haven't posted ANYTHING in a while, and I am so sorry, please blame my crazy schedule and lack of inspiration. But one night as I was not sleeping, I really wanted to do a very descriptive piece, so I decided I would do this series of one-shots that go into detail about a specific character. This one is for Will Herondale from the Infernal Devices trilogy, but if you guys want me to do another character, review or send me a PM! I will try to do my best! Also I wrote Salty Rivers, A Day in the Life of Will Herondale and The Cast if you guys want to check those out too! :)**

In silhouette, in the dark, hazy glow of the streetlight, his profile was indistinct; all smudged angles and tension and layers of contrasting color. Black, jagged hair, set across the pale white parchment of his face like ink carelessly spilled across a blank page, leaving ragged, uneven edges. Half-lidded eyes like shards of cutting glass with a shade as deep and fleeting as a twilight sky teetering on the precipice of midnight hidden beneath long, thickly tangled lashes. A pale smirk laced with rose twisting across a face full of sharp planes and abrupt corners that held strange, wicked beauty.

His shoulders were drawn tightly around his torso, straining against the driving wind that buffeted him from all sides. Muscles made sure by battle constricted around his skeleton, pulling him into himself on instinct. He fought the wind in the same manner in which he fought demons, but he was no match for the unrelenting, unyielding force. Angel blood or no, there was not enough strength in even a warrior fallen from heaven to defeat this weather. His muscles quaked against his body, every fiber vibrating with the effort; every molecule of sinew straining to the breaking point.

Exhaustion had devoured his entire being, but he didn't care.

He needed the distraction.

The rusty metal of the streetlamp, mutilated by the hands of time, dug into the back of his skull as he leaned his head back, slitting his eyes to strain for the stars, those silvery pearls of luminescence, like the split beads of a lady's necklace, thrown against the endless canvas of velvety midnight, mocking him. The sky was close enough to touch, it seemed, but when he reached up a hand, the heavens were miles away.

An ethereal exhale; heavenly breaths roiled the sky, shrouding it from wondering human eyes below tearing him viciously into the present once more.

From beneath the gloom, a single star wavered, almost swallowed by the murky obscurity, and he felt his gaze drawn upwards once more. His eyes locked on the ornament of the cosmos, entranced.

Pain, profound and visceral, raced through his body without warning, coursing through his veins, turning his blood to ash as it shot for his heart, inflicting a wound deeper than could have been made by any earthly weapon. He flinched sharply, the silvery lines of the receding rune on his chest burning through his flesh. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony; the symbol that had once caused him the most joy was now causing him the most agony.

Silver, traditionally, was the color of the Shadowhunters for demons, but for him, it was the color of everything that had been his undoing.

Silver was the color of the demon's stinger that had killed his sister; silver was the color of faded runes; silver was the color of _yin fen_, the color of Jem's eyes, of Jem's hair, of _Jem. _And now, the color of the pulsing, scorching _parabatai_ rune right over his heart.

He was almost convinced that silver was the color of hell; a barren, silvery wasteland with miles and miles full of nothing but shards of broken runes and broken hearts. And pain. Clouds heavy with endless, scorching pain that froze the earth like a bitter flame.

He had almost grown used to it; the crippling fingers sinking into his flesh with deft, razor-sharp claws, striking at every unexpected moment. He had learned to school his features into a masquerade mask of cool, detached boredom, but it was when he had almost forgotten reality when he was stabbed all over with the burning, all-consuming truth.

Jem was dead. His rock, his best friend, his _parabatai_; the only person who understood him, who trusted him, who loved him. And what bit deeper than a hellhound was that he, the person who'd sworn to stay by Jem's side until death, _hadn't been there_.

In all of his life since coming to the Institute, there had never been a time where Jem hadn't been with him. When they were training, when he had slipped an fell on his weapons, Jem had been there to laugh and bind his wounds. When he got his First Marks, Jem had held his hands and hadn't complained when he crushed Jem's fingers to pulp. When he had come home drunk and bloody from another bar fight, it was Jem who had dumped ice water over his head to sober him up and applied careful _izrates_ so Charlotte wouldn't know. Jem had always, _always_ been there. But now, when Jem had lain weak and dying, he had left him alone while he traipsed across the Welsh countryside to rescue the girl the both loved, but that Jem couldn't have.

_You selfish, idiotic bastard,_ he berated himself, pushing off the wall of the light post. He started walking back towards the enticing, golden glow of the inn. _You are a truly worthless human. Worthless to Charlotte and Henry, worthless to Cecily, worthless to Jem, worthless to Tessa. You might not have been cursed by Marbas, but you _are_ the curse. You still hurt everyone you know. Including yourself. _He shoved the door open savagely, wood splintering into the palm of his hand, and he winced.

Deep in the darkest depths of his heart, he knew that he couldn't save them. Any of them. Jem was dead, and in the years that he could have been searching for a cure for Jem, he had squandered his adolescence on worthless pursuits and self-pity. He had abandoned his family, and now Cecily and the others at the Institute. And Tessa; she had been stolen by Mortmain and taken to a castle in God-knows-where, Wales, and he was crazy with worry about her well-being. She could be dead or worse, and he had no way of getting to her; he had no plan, no weapons save one seraph blade, and absolutely no backup. She was as good as dead, but he was still holding on by his fingertips to the faintest hope that there might be some way, some astronomically crazy way of rescuing her.

He mounted the stairs with long, loping strides, barely making a noise as he ascended to his shabby room. When he finally flung the door open, he was sweating and his face felt aflame with pent-up frustration and agony. He sank onto the musty mattress, his slim-fingered hands sliding up his cheekbones to tangle in his matted hair, clenching in blood-crusted handfuls. His teeth ground into his jaw, a tortured growl slipping from between his lips. A breath of wind swept around the inn, dispatching another cloud to cover the moon. Shadows danced across his face, turning his features to nothing but a collection of smudged corners and indistinct lines, leaving only the brilliant, razor-sharp edges of his shattered heart scattered on the floor.

**Read and Review please! Also if you review below and/or PM me if you have any requests for other one-shots! You guys are the best for reading this! :)**


	2. Drunk in Love

**Author's Note: I was thinking through ideas of stories to write, and I know in Clockwork Angel Jem says that he's never paid attention to girls before Tessa. But I was thinking that what boy never pays attention to girls? So that's where this one came from, and I also wanted to integrate Tatiana Lightwood so here goes… Review and follow - I'd love to hear what you think!**

**2: Drunk in Love**

Throughout his 12 years, James Carstairs had always been afraid of girls.

They were strange, flighty creatures, like butterflies: beautiful to look at, but altogether too interested in useless things like dresses and powder and dancing to be interesting at all.

At least, the mundane girls he had observed had fit that description perfectly. They were the picture of empty-headedness and stupidity. And he had yet to meet a pretty Shadowhunter girl who could fight and hold her own, instead of wailing dramatically whist waiting for a handsome and equally idiotic prince to ride in on his noble steed and save her, as in the novels that Will enjoyed reading.

Jem glanced at over at his best friend, who, ironically, was engrossed in such a book: _Wuthering Heights_, by Emile Brontë. Will's longish black hair fell into his eyes as he leaned forward to turn the page; he brushed it back absently, utterly absorbed in whatever ridiculously unrealistic story was contained in the worn pages. The leather spine was held lightly between his slim, unmarked hands, held with the same practiced care with which Will held his weapons.

Will, because of his recent transition from the mundane life into that of the Shadowhunters, had not yet received his First Marks. Typically, an aspiring Shadowhunter was eligible to receive their First Marks after their tenth birthday, if sufficiently trained. But Will, having have received no formal training before he arrived at the Institute two years ago, would have to wait until his thirteenth birthday to have the first ceremonial Marks placed on his body.

Although Jem himself was only 12, his parents had trained him vigorously from when he was just a toddler, and due to their high-risk assignment of destroying the demon Yanluo, his parents had insisted that he was ready to receive his First Marks when he was only 10.

Jem bit the inside of his cheek hard. He couldn't think about it: not about his parents, or Yanluo, or the poison or China; none of it. _You're lucky to be alive_, he berated himself. _Even if you might die tomorrow, you might as well take advantage of the time you have here._

"Jem?"

Will had set the book on the table next to him, raising the already-precarious stack of books to the point of tumbling. He was watching Jem warily, unsure of whether to express concern or to pick up a new novel and continue ignoring the world, as he had been doing for the past three hours.

Jem glanced over at his friend, and was surprised at the genuine worry that flashed through Will's dark blue eyes. He was so used to Will's jaded sarcasm, his blatant disrespect for everything and everyone. He had always trusted that there was good in Will, but this sudden show of emotion, as meager as it was, was enough to make him forget the pain of his past.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," Will said quickly, looking away. "You just looked…lost, is all. Never mind."

A smile flitted across Jem's lips. "It wasn't important. I'm here now, aren't I?"

Will nodded, stretching his growing limbs in front of him. "Good thing, too. I'd have no better company than Jessamine, and God knows there isn't an ounce of brain in that empty head of hers."

Jem laughed softly, staring into the flames of the fire.

"Not to mention that I'd be obliged to spend these terribly stuffy events in similar company," Will continued, glancing over at Jem with a twisted smirk on his face.

Jem shifted in his chair to look at his friend. "Which events?"

"Haven't you listened to any of Charlotte's harping?" Will asked, incredulous. "I am aware that she is a miniature specimen of a woman, but there's no missing her foghorn voice. And it's no secret that her batty beau is planning a proposition of marriage for this very night."

"What's happening tonight?" Jem asked, embarrassed. "I have heard something about a party, but as you know I've been…sick…recently, and…"

"The annual Clave Christmas party." Will's voice was tight, clipped. "Quite a bore, honestly, but because we live in the London Institute, the entire population of Shadowhunters in the region comes flocking to our doors. And we, of course, must be dressed to the nines and act like the perfect little Shadowhunters we are." Will's voice was dripping with sarcasm, but it was obvious he was trying to avoid the subject of Jem's illness.

Jem nodded. "We had events like this in China. We didn't have your British Christmas, but we did have our own festivals and holidays."

"No doubt as hideously ridiculous as this one." Will snorted. "But in any event, Charlotte will probably have an aneurism if we don't make an appearance. She has usually made it a habit of attending to guests, but now that she has that ginger-haired Romeo of hers, she will be off making merry while we collect overcoats."

Jem shrugged good-naturedly. "That does sound a bit dull. But as you said, we are required to come, so we might as well make the best of it."

Will grinned at him, and Jem wasn't sure that he liked the wicked gleam he saw in his friend's dark, icy eyes. "Exactly."

Four hours later, the two boys were dressed in clean, starched suits and stood stiffly like tin soldiers in the main foyer of the Institute. The first guests were beginning to trickle through the doors, and nearly all of them were staring.

Will's dark good looks were accentuated by the formal suit; his inky-black hair had been tamed so that it no longer fell in his face but instead was swept away from his forehead, and his eyes were a startling blue against his stiff white shirt. His skin still held some of the Welsh sunshine, although the dreary London air had taken much of the color form his cheeks. He was still all legs and cheekbones, but he was beginning to look like the very handsome man he would be in just a few short years.

But both boys knew the guests weren't staring at Will

They were staring at Jem.

He had only been living at the Institute for a few short months, but already the effects of the _yin fen_ were beginning to show. When he had arrived in London, his skin had been tanned, his eyes as dark as black tea, his hair as inky as Will's. His hair was now shot through with silver, like that of an octogenarian, his eyes like iron-streaked marbles, his skin pale, verging on ashen. He looked sick and weak and much younger than his 12 years would suggest.

He was ashamed of his condition.

Every time he looked in the mirror, he felt himself drowning in towering waves of humiliation and guilt. He was a weak, dying addict, and a burden to everyone around him. He could barely live a normal, mundane life, let alone fight and slay demons, as was his vocation as a Shadowhunter. His reflection galled him; he wanted nothing more than to reach his hands through the mirror and strangle the face that stared back at him, to end this.

But…

Jem glanced over at Will.

His friend was as stiff as a board; every time a guest stopped to stare, whether at the oddly matched pair or at Jem, Will's jaw was drawn tighter and tighter, as if it were being cinched deeper into his skull. His hands were drawn into tight fists, his knuckles turning white with the effort of restraining himself from pummeling the powdered faces that crossed in front of them.

Smiling to himself at Will's loyalty, Jem brushed his friend's shoulder with his own. "It's quite alright, William. Relax, or your teeth might lodge in your brain."

"Why must they stare?" Will hissed, his voice on the verge of snapping in fury. "Why do you allow them to stare at you like you're some bizarre specimen in a menagerie?"

"It doesn't matter." Jem kept his voice low, but firm. "I can't stop them from staring, and neither can you. I don't enjoy it any more than you, but there's nothing I can do about it; this is just how I am."

"No, it isn't." Will's voice was deadly quiet, but unwavering. "You are not some addict. I mean, you are, but that's not all there is. You have the biggest heart and you are my friend and all those bastards should see those parts of you, not just the drug."

Jem smiled. "Your words are touching Will. I appreciate them; I do. But they won't help me escape this. And beating up these rude guests won't accomplish anything."

"Maybe." Will was quiet. Then, "I can help you escape, though, if that's what you want."

Jem eyed Will warily. "What do you mean?"

"I told you we should make the most of this otherwise exceedingly dull event, correct?" Will sounded impatient. "Well, I wasn't lying. I happen to know where Agatha keeps the liquor, and…"

"Will," Jem groaned. "Tell me you didn't."

"That would be lying, my dear James!" Will's face was gleeful. "Charlotte and Henry aren't the only ones to whom amusement is allotted! What say you? Is it going to be…"

Jem clapped a hand over Will's mouth to quell his friend's shouting; guests were beginning to stare.

"I'll come," he ground out from between clenched teeth. "But that does not mean that I am going to even take a sip of whatever alcohol you've made off with. And I am most certainly not going to let either of us become intoxicated."

Will looked affronted. "Of course not, James. Do you really think I want to risk incurring the wrath of Charlotte? Don't be dense. We'll only have a couple drinks, then return to the festivities before anyone starts to miss us."

He seized Jem by the wrist and began to weave in and out of groups of mingling party-goers.

Jem let himself be tugged ahead, and couldn't help but grin. "I will make no promises."

Will didn't reply; he led Jem down a hallway to a hidden back staircase, which ended in a storage closet that was adjacent to the Institute's library. It made sense to Jem; whenever Will had a secret or needed to be alone, he went to the library. It was Will's haven; he practically lived there.

Dropping Jem's wrist, he turned to the wall shelf next to the paned-glass window and began tossing books haphazardly around himself, creating a semicircle of tomes along with a series of percussive thuds.

"Will," Jem whispered, glancing nervously toward the door. "What in the name of the Angel are you doing? Do you want to be discovered?"

Will waved an impatient hand, sending a book whistling past Jem's head. "Never fear, Jem. With all of the banging that Elise Penhallow is doing on that blasted spinet of hers, no one will hear a thing. And besides, if they do, they'll be too drunk to think anything of it." Will turned back to the bookshelf, but Jem was fairly certain that he hear Will mutter, "Boiled as owls, all of them."

Several minutes passed.

"Will?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you quite finished?"

"Just 'grunt' about."

With one final jerk of his arm, Will dislodged the final book, a weighty almanac. Before the volume had even hit the ground, Will was already lodged in the bookshelf up to his shoulder, grunting and twisting until…

_Click._

Without warning, something in the shelf gave, and Will sighed, a satisfied smile on his face.

Jem raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Now what?"

Will reached back inside the hidden compartment and emerged with his fists strangulating the necks of two shapeless bottles. "Now," he said, grinning wickedly, "we drink."

When the two boys finally staggered downstairs to the ballroom to rejoin the party, both were unsteady and both slightly drunk. Nobody noticed; as Will had predicted, almost all of the adult party-goers were just as drunk as they were, if not more. Nearly all in attendance were stumbling blithely around, rumpled and disheveled. No one even gave the boys a second glance.

Will tugged Jem across the ballroom to a small antechamber, along the walls of which chaise lounges and small sofas had been distributed, for the drunken guests, no doubt.

There were, in fact, several who had flung themselves upon the tasseled furniture, moaning incoherently. Jem barely noticed them as he joined Will on the loveseat; he was too busy admiring the room's only other occupant.

He dug Will in the ribs.

"Who…who's that?" he slurred, pointing a wavering finger at the satin-bedecked girl perched on the chaise lounge across the room.

She was quite pretty; tawny hair that hung in soft, wispy waves around her heart-shaped face, save for the locks that were pulled behind her head with a silky rose-colored ribbon. Her eyes were a very pale green, like the color of celery, and set into a high-browed forehead.

But strangely, the only feature that struck Jem as noticeable was her lips; like a closed purse, they were perfectly proportionate to her delicate face and looked as soft as water. He was suddenly filled with a strange desire, but he wasn't sure if it was coming from the alcohol in his stomach, or if his emotions were the true source.

She was bent over what appeared to be a small diary of sorts, and seemed to be exceedingly focused on whatever she was writing. But whenever she thought no one was looking, she would glance up, and aim a coy smile in the direction of the boys.

Will cast a careless glance across the room, his eyes finally falling in the direction of Jem's finger. He let out a dismissive breath.

"Oh…you mean her? That's Tatiana…Lightwood, I think…Indeed, Lightwood. Sister of that terrible worm Gabriel."

Under normal circumstances, Jem would have berated his friend for insulting a fellow Shadowhunter in such a blatant method, but at the present, he was too busy watching.

Watching her.

He was transfixed by the way she tucked her long hair behind her ear as she bit her lip, deep in thought.

_Her lips_.

Why did he want those lips so badly?

Jem tried to think about what he found so appealing about such a simple feature as the mouth, but pondering that deep question made his head hurt.

So instead, he turned back to look at her.

But she was gone.

Will noticed Jem scanning the room, but that wasn't what had struck him as odd. He turned to nudge his friend, but Jem was already on his feet and moving to the hall with as much purpose he could muster on his wobbly legs.

"James!" Will called, his voice unsteady. "Jem? Wh…where in the name of the Angel are you…"

But Jem was already out the door, intent on searching out Tatiana. If pressed, he couldn't explain _why_ he felt so attracted to the young Shadowhunter, but he didn't need reasons. The only clear thought he could rationalize was that he wanted to be closer to her. _Needed_ to.

He was so focused on the only thought his mind could grasp that he didn't hear Will behind him.

"Jem! Y…you bastard! Look what I found!"

Will had gotten up to follow his friend, but his attention was snagged on the chaise on which Tatiana had been sitting. It wasn't empty. Sandwiched between two plush cushions was a small, black leather-bound notebook. And of course Will, being the curious, drunk 12-year-old that he was, had picked up the notebook and had flipped it over.

His eyes scanned the first page, and immediately his eyes bulged almost out of their sockets. He quickly read the first journal entry, first wanting to collapse to the ground laughing until tears fell from his eyes, then wanting to throw up.

Jem needed to see this.

He looked up, but Jem was gone.z

The only clue that Tatiana had left behind was the scent of her floral perfume.

It hung in the air like a cloud on the verge of bursting, overwhelming Jem's senses as he followed it down the corridor to the abandoned parlor. Although the guests were contained to the main foyer and ballroom, the maids had still stoked the fire in the event that a partygoer might stumble into the room.

Jem burst through the door.

Immediately, he heard a high pitched shriek, which was quickly cut off, as if a hand had clamped over the mouth of whoever had emitted the noise.

Then he saw her, cowered in a corner behind a tall, long-leafed plant.

Her green eyes locked on his onyx ones, and for two excruciating seconds, neither moved; only absorbed the other in shock.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jem shook himself from his daze, realizing finally that he might be coming across as improper by staring. She was just so…_beautiful_

"Um…hello, miss," he said as he stepped into the room, realizing, belatedly, that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do. "I apologize for intruding in this manner, but allow me to introduce myself…"

She was already rising slowly from behind the plant, her fingers slowly falling from her mouth. Her small white hands smoothed the crinkled material of her dress and instinctively brushed a stray curl away from her ear.

"I…I believe I might have heard about you," she said hesitantly, giving him a brief smile that lacked warmth. "From Shanghai, correct? James…"

"Carstairs." He stepped closer. "But call me Jem. And it is my deepest pleasure to be introduced to you at last, Miss Lightwood."

Tatiana shrank back, looking nervous. "How do you know who I am?"

"I've heard much about you," Jem told her, smiling to cover his lie. "My friend discusses you often."

Her pale green eyes lit up. "Might your friend be a Mr. Will Herondale?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Jem saw his connection to her and seized it. "He never misses an opportunity to compliment your beauty. And, might I take the liberty of saying that he was not incorrect in the slightest?"

An adorable rosy blush spread over her cheekbones. "You flatter me. But…"

Jem stepped even closer. "Have I misspoken? Doesn't every beautiful girl wish to be complimented and wooed?"

She looked down at her long, ruffled skirts, embarrassed.

Emboldened by the alcohol, Jem moved closer yet, and even took her hand, which was small and warm between his own. "I have admired you for quite some time. Your beautiful face has completely captivated my heart. I wish for nothing else than to embrace you. Might I?"

He couldn't bear to wait for her response.

But he didn't have to.

Tatiana was already pressing herself against him, burying her head against his shoulder. Her perfume assaulted his nostrils, but he smelled something else on her breath; liquor. Most likely, she had sampled some of the spiced cider.

But at the moment, Jem couldn't care less if the girl in his arms was drunk or sober. He didn't care about the reason why she was subjecting so willingly to his touch, his caress. She was _here,_ staring up at him, mesmerized, her lips slightly parted, just waiting for him to close the gap between them.

So he complied.

Jem had never kissed a girl before. He had never even held hands with a girl, let alone take the horrible liberty of making such an intimate gesture. But now, holding Tatiana in his arms, he wondered what he had ever found repulsive about kissing. This felt…natural…right.

Until it was over.

As if breaking out of a daze, Tatiana pushed herself away from him, away from his grasping arms. She stared at him, as if horrified at what they had just been doing. She looked as though she were seeing him for the first time.

Jem saw with frightening clarity his own drunken, drugged heart falling before his eyes until it shattered into millions of dull silver shards through the air between them.

Tatiana's pale green eyes welled with tears, and just as Jem was opening his mouth to apologize, to explain, to say _anything_ to make her stay, she covered her hand with her mouth and fled from the room, her bright satin dress and tawny curls fluttering in the perfumed breeze that followed her.

No sooner had the door of the parlor slammed shut behind her did it fly open again.

Jem's skyrocketing hopes nosedived into the dying embers of the fireplace as Will, not Tatiana as he had been so desperately wishing, burst into the room, looking like a creature straight from the underworld.

His inky hair was matted at the temples with sweat, and most likely from the bottle of white liquor he had smashed over his own head. Rivulets of this same alcohol-sweat had mixed with the dust from the bookshelves and was now trickling down his face and hands, giving him the appearance of one who has just crawled out of their own grave. His dark blue eyes were wild and slightly bloodshot, which only added to the effect.

"Jem!" Will crashed into the couch, making it sway dangerously, nearly to the point of capsizing. "Thank god! There you are! You'll never guess what I…" Will noticed Jem's crumpled, dejected expression. "What's possessed you?"

Will looked from Jem to the door, then noticed the still lingering scent of Tatiana's perfume.

He clapped his friend on the shoulder and handed him a small, black leather-bound notebook. "Chin up, Jem. She's not worth tearing your heart over. Besides, this will make up for it."

Jem cast a dull glance at the book in his hand. "What's this?" he asked, disinterest evident in his tone.

A wicked, devious grin spread over Will's grimy features. "Tatiana's precious notebook, the one she's always scribbling in. She, um…well, let's just say the thing is fairly infested with a bunch of ridiculous nonsense."

Jem flipped open the cover page. The first entry read:

_William Herondale, dear diary, is my soulmate. We are a match made in heaven, and I know his feelings for me can be nothing less than pure admiration, and my own emotions are similar. My heart yearns for the day when the two of us can be joined as one, and he can finally be mine to embrace and kiss and love. _

Feeling heartsick and disgusted, Jem turned the page. The next page held a poem.

_How many, sweet William/are the million/ways in which I love you._

Restraining the urge to hurl the sickening book into the flames, Jem scanned the rest of the pages. Almost every single sheet was filled with love letters, poems, plans for their wedding, possible names for their children, drawings of Tatiana's wedding gown and a groom's boutonniere.

The whole thing made Jem want to throw up and tear out his hair and collapse to the ground laughing. He settled for the latter, letting his jaw relax into a half-hearted smile as he handed the notebook back to Will.

"This…" He shook his head, allowing a pent-up laugh to escape himself. "This is incredible. We should publish the whole thing and distribute copies to the entire Clave."

Will grinned at him, his shoulders visibly loosening as he watched Jem drop his own tensions. "No," he said. "I've an even better idea."

Ten minutes later, Will watched with giddy anticipation as Jem herded the last few straggling guests into the main ballroom, where he was perched on the top of a long banquet table, hiding Tatiana's diary behind his back until he saw Jem's wave from the back of the room to signal that everyone was assembled. Will gave the faintest hint of a nod, and turned to face the crowd.

"Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will be reading a passage from…" Will paused dramatically before revealing the notebook with a flourish from behind his back, "Miss Tatiana Lightwood's superior novel!"

Hurriedly, knowing that either Gabriel or Gideon would be upon him soon, Will flipped open the notebook and began reading in a loud, hideously high-pitched voice meant to imitate a girl.

"William, sweet William, is truly an angel among us, dear diary. He has the face of God himself, and lips that anyone would want to…"

His dramatic monologue was unceremoniously cut off by two things: first, an ear-splittingly high-pitched shriek of horror that had erupted from Tatiana; then came Gabriel, barreling out of the crowd with vengeance in his fists and murder in his eyes.

"Herondale," the older boy hissed, his pale, runed forearms bared. "You'll die for that. Right here; right now. I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

Will settled his weight into the balls of his feet, preparing for a strike. "All, bark, no bite, Gabriel," he spat. "I'll have to remember that when that ridiculously mad sister of yours forces me into wedlock and we're related."

"I could never be related to a worm like you."

Will smirked. "I have to say, I completely share that sentiment."

Gabriel lunged for Will then, knocking him off of the high table, both hands clamping around Will's throat.

The smirk never left Will's face as he easily flipped the older boy over his shoulder, breaking the choke hold with a severe twist and an elbow to Gabriel's diaphragm. Before his opponent even had a chance to react, Will grabbed Gabriel by the arm and kicked him into the wall while twisting the appendage violently until he heard a sickeningly dry, hollow snap.

By this point, party-goers who were not too drunk to have ignored the commotion were trying to force the two boys apart.

But there was no need.

As soon as he heard Gabriel's arm snap like kindling, Will knew that he had done enough damage. He stepped away from the mess he created and turned to face Gabriel once more, who was sagged against the wall, very pale in the face, cradling his misshapen arm to his torso as someone bent down to him with a stele.

"I would suggest, Gabriel, that in the future you do not underestimate your opponents." Will's smirk grew at Gabriel's snarl of fury. "After all, an untrained little boy from Wales with a mundane mother just managed to put you in a world of hurt." Will feigned a sickly sweet smile. "And if you might, please advise your sister to stay away from both Jem and myself. Might I make myself just a little more clear; if she so much as looks at either of us, I will do to her as I did to you."

Gabriel just glowered at him in furious helplessness, unable to strangle Will as he desired due to his injured arm.

Will simply smiled, showing all of his teeth. "Merry Christmas, Gabriel. It was such a pleasure to see you again."

As Will sauntered back into the crowd to find his friend, both Will and Gabriel were aware of two very distinct things.

The first was that this conflict between them was most certainly NOT over; the second was that they would finish this. It would not happen here or now, but William Herondale and Gabriel Lightwood would meet again. And next time, it would be a fight to the death.

And Jem, standing near the doorway with a faint smile crossing his freshly-kissed lips was thinking the exact same things. Except as the alcohol started to release him from its stranglehold, he knew that he would never take a risk with a girl like that again. He resolved to himself, on that disastrous Christmas evening, that he wouldn't let himself love again.

After all, girls were exactly like butterflies; beautiful to look at, but always slipping through one's fingers, leaving one grasping at nothing but air.

And he knew that his scarred, silvery hands would never be able to hold on tight enough.

So right then, right there, he let go.

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